Memories of You
by PenPistola
Summary: Speculation as to Spike's life leading up to the time of Cowboy Bebop. Witness the events that made Spike Spiegel who he is today, including where he learns Jeet Kune Do, how he meets Vicious and Julia, and how he loses his eye.
1. Don't Bother None

If there was a God in heaven, he certainly was getting an earful

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Cowboy Bebop, its concepts or its characters. Writings are solely for pleasure, not profit.

If there was a God in heaven, he certainly was getting an earful. Mariah Spiegel paced up and down the main room of her apartment, slamming a soup ladle against her palm. She prayed and cursed at the same time, a kaleidoscope of anger, fear and worry patterning across her features. Spike was late. He'd said he was just going out to get a loaf of bread, but that was four hours ago. Four hours ago! Knowing him, he'd gotten into some kind of trouble, the severity of which she couldn't even begin to guess at.

Mariah heard a brisk knock at the door. "That boy," she muttered as she walked up to it, tightening her grip on the ladle. She peeked through the peephole, taking in the whole fisheye view. There was Spike, his wild mop of green hair in even worse disarray than usual. And behind him… "Aghh, shit." She didn't even try to hide her fury as she opened the door.

"Good evening, Mrs. Spiegel," said the I.S.S.P. officer standing behind the sullen-looking teenager. He sounded cheerful enough, but Mariah caught the serious edge to his words. "I'd like to have a word or two with you and your son. Inside."

Mariah nodded and ushered them into the tiny, two-room apartment, sending Spike a poisonous glare. He returned it with equal fervor. "Have a seat." Spike made for the lumpy couch, but Mariah caught him by the scruff of the neck before he could steal the officer's spot. She heard the clink of metal and glanced down to see his skinny wrists bound in handcuffs. Spike fumed.

The officer shifted uncomfortably on the cushion. "Let me get straight to the point. Your son tried to 'commandeer' a zip craft this afternoon."

"What?!" It was all Mariah could do to keep from hurling the ladle at Spike's head. "You stole a zip craft?"

Spike flopped against the wall, itching irritably at his cuffs and refusing to look at either of them. "I didn't steal anything. He _gave_ me the keys."

"If I can butt in," the officer growled, "He impersonated a valet at the Hotel Blue down the street, and ran off with a nine hundred thousand woolong zip craft. The owner immediately reported it stolen, but Spike here took off and gave us quite a chase before we finally caught up with him."

A brief flicker of triumph crossed the teen's face, until he caught his mother's gaze and he instantly schooled his features back to indifference.

"You'll be glad to know that considering the, ah, the circumstances," he glanced around the room, "and since the damages were minimal, the owner won't be pressing charges." Mariah let out a breath of air she'd been unconsciously holding in. "But, as I'm sure you're aware, this is the second time Spike has violated his probation. Once more and we'll have no choice but to give him a year in prison."

Spike's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly at that. Mariah took it as a good sign. The boy needed some common sense and fear of the law knocked into him somehow. "That's regular prison, not juvie again?"

"Correct, ma'am, regular prison. Repeated offenses like this can get anyone over sixteen into prison," the cop said, giving her a grave look.

Spike cursed under his breath. His sixteenth birthday was just last month.

"We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Mariah said sweetly. Her eyes narrowed when Spike refused to answer. "_Would_ we?" she ground out.

"No." If Spike's eyes had been lasers, the dingy carpet would have been up in flames.

"Now apologize to Officer… Officer Harmon," she pressed, glancing over at the older man's badge name.

Spike seemed to realize that the longer he dragged the scene out, the longer it would take him to get his dignity back. He forcefully shoved his pride down and muttered, "Sorry."

Harmon got to his feet, brushing his hands together as if he was dusting off some piece of dirt. "Well, that's good," he smiled, perfectly chipper. He fished in his pocket until he found the key to the handcuffs, manhandling the lanky teenager around to remove them. They came off with a snap, leaving Spike rubbing his reddened wrists where the metal had dug into his skin. "Good night, Mrs. Spiegel. I hope I don't see you again."

"Me too," Mariah smiled. Both of them waited in utter stillness and silence until the door shut and they heard Harmon's footsteps disappearing down the hall. Then in an instant, they each whirled around, eyes blazing. Mariah brandished the ladle.

"Spike Hadar Spiegel!" she growled. It was underhanded, calling him by his Hebrew name; she knew that. But it would work to get his attention.

"Goddammit, what?!" His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles were white. Mariah knew he wouldn't strike her, but he wanted to.

"Hijacking zip crafts? Look at you." She jerked her head angrily in his direction. "You know who you look like?"

"Don't say it," Spike warned, eyes slits from under his bangs. It was an empty threat, but just as fierce as a bobcat cornered.

"You look like your father." Spike glanced up, eyes wide in outrage. She'd get through to him yet. "You look your lowlife, dirty, two-timing father, that's who."

"Shut up!" His eyes were now tightly screwed shut and his jaw clenched. He backed into the wall, shaking his head faintly.

"You know, he got into the very same stuff before they put him away for good. Spike, listen to me. If you don't want to end up like your father, you'd better get your ass on the right track, and fast."

"Mom, I just thought—"

"No."

"I was trying to—"

"Spike, just listen." Mariah sighed, putting the ladle aside and letting her forehead rest in her hand. "When your father… when he got arrested, I knew it would be hard. I knew I'd have to raise you alone, and how much work that would be." Spike actually managed a small, embarrassed smirk. "I knew, I _knew_ it would be hard. But never once did I think about resorting to the kind of things that got your father arrested in the first place."

"I was going to take it to Robara down on Morocco Street. He's a fence. He could have gotten me a lot of money, untraceable, and then we would have been able to afford decent food."

Any remaining traces of anger Mariah felt dissolved at her son's words. He sounded so unusually… timid. She approached him, cautiously, slowly, and he didn't balk when she laid a hand upon his shoulder. "I understand, Spike. But just… for my sake, don't take the same path your father took. There is honest work out there for you. There's a life for you. Just trust me, you'll find it."

"I will."

That night, the scrawny teen lay awake on his lumpy couch pallet. The clock blinked three a.m. and he rolled silently over onto the carpet and slunk into his mother's room. He moved aside a pile of old, worn-out shoes, and his hand brushed against cold steel. His father's Israeli-made Jericho 941. Spike cradled the gun to his chest, wincing when the cartridge clinked. His mother didn't awake. Packing the gun and the few of his belongings he cared to keep into his backpack, he stole from the apartment building and out into the night.

Spike didn't know how or where he would find it, just that his mother was right—there were better things out there. Fuck Mars, fuck this town, and especially fuck his probation officer. His mother was better off without him, without a delinquent son who wasn't much more than another mouth to feed. Honest or not, there was a better life waiting for Spike somewhere. And he _would_ find it.


	2. Give and Take

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bebop, its characters or concepts. Written purely for enjoyment, not profit.

**A/N:** I'm feeling very experimental. Tell me what you think, about characterization, everything. Constructive crit welcome! Dedicated to Kimi the Great.

Kezach Morgan had been working on the nomad tanker ship _Desperado _for seventeen years. Looking at him, one wouldn't think of him as being especially tough or competent. He was a tall, wiry man, rough as if whoever cut him from the mold had been drunk at the time. He wore thick glasses, less a refusal to update with the times and have corrective surgery than a sign of his utter poverty. But as unassuming a man as he seemed, the whole crew of the _Desperado_ knew that after his near two decades of slaving away hauling fuel all over the solar system, Morgan had more than proved his worth. He was a force to be reckoned with, and yet, he could still be caught off guard.

He was down in the cargo hold, performing a routine check of the shipment containers. If one of those babies blew, it'd mean a hell of a lot of trouble—petroleum and poison gases everywhere. It was a restricted area, and he was the only one with clearance, simply because of the risk involved in hauling the shit. So when he heard muffled thumping noises coming from behind one of the containers, he nearly blew a gasket.

"Oh, shit," he muttered under his breath, spitting out the end of his chewed up, unsmoked cigar. This wasn't good. Either one of the crew was breaking the rules, or worse, they'd picked up a criminal hitchhiker looking for a getaway. Morgan steeled himself, on edge to take on whatever situation was presented to him. "Who's there?" he called out in warning. The thumping stopped, and he heard a gasp and a faint clatter.

Morgan threw caution to the wind and jumped out from around the corner.

Click—BANG! A shot just narrowly missed Morgan's ear, whistling past him and ricocheting off the wall dangerously close to one of the containers. Without thinking, Morgan let his instincts take over. Before the shooter could pull back the gun's sliding action again, Morgan's leg had shot out and caught him by the ankle. The shooter tripped, and Morgan took the opportunity to jab him hard in the spine with his elbow. Morgan stood back as he landed sprawled out on the deck, gun clattering several feet away.

"Well, lookie here!" Morgan grinned in amusement as his attacker wheezed, trying and failing to push his winded body into a sitting position. "A little stowaway." He nudged him with his foot, rolling him over to get a better look at him. "A _little_ stowaway." The boy couldn't have been older than sixteen, tall and scrawny with his hair in a shaggy mop dyed a dark, poisonous green.

"What the hell?" the kid panted, blinking and putting a hand to his forehead. "How… whaa?"

"I should be asking you the same question," Morgan grunted, putting his cigar back in his mouth and lighting up. "This is a restricted area, so you should'na been able to get in. And it ain't no place for a gun." He stooped down and picked it up, giving it a look-over. It was a nice old antique, Israeli made. "What you doin' here anyway?"

"I was gonna get off at the next stop," the boy muttered, huffing to his feet with his hands raised in submission. "I just wanted off Mars."

"Right." Morgan put the safety on the pistol, spun it on his finger a couple of times and tossed it back to the kid, who fumbled it nervously. "Well, now that you're here, nothing to do but wait 'till the next stop to boot you off." He caught the look of relief on the kid's face.

"Kezach Morgan. You can call me Morgan." He extended a hand, and the kid took it hesitantly, as though expecting Morgan to pull another fast one on him.

"Spike Spiegel."

"Well, Mr. Spiegel, you're lucky you met me first. Anyone else, and they'd have given you the usual treatment we give to stowaways. A one way ticket back to Mars. Sans space suit."

The kid didn't seem to be fazed by the threat. "So, ah, what do I do?" Spike asked, feeling more at ease with each passing minute, despite Morgan's gruff attitude. "I take it I can't just stay in here."

"You can bunk with me, provided you don't mind staying with an old codger who enjoys the occasional smoke."

"Sure." The teen seemed surprised by the amount of hospitality Morgan was showing him. To be honest, Morgan's crewmates would have been surprised too, if they had seen the exchange. Morgan wasn't known as the nicest of men. But something about this kid reminded him of himself, and he took an instant liking to him. Maybe it was that intense look in his eye, that told Morgan this kid was a fighter. A survivor.

Spike followed Morgan out of the cargo hold and into the cabin, where the other deckhands all sat around a table playing cards before dinner. A few of them looked up as Morgan entered the room, and within moments, all twenty or so of them were staring.

"Hey Morgan, what—"

"Yo. Dinner ready?" Morgan ignored the stares and walked straight over to the cook, who was ladling out bowls of potato soup.

"Sure, grab yourself a bowl." He grabbed two instead. No one else said anything about the tall, lanky teen standing in the corner. Though Morgan was just a deckhand, even the captain respected him, didn't question him. When Morgan sat down, Spike cautiously followed him and sat down in the seat across. He took the soup Morgan offered gratefully, gulping it down fast before it had time to cool off. Kid must have been hungry, Morgan thought.

"Thanks," the kid said, startling him with his sudden breach of silence. "For letting me stay here."

Morgan got the feeling that Spike didn't say those words too often to anyone. "Don't have much choice," he grinned, "but it's a pleasure, kid. These long runs get boring anyway."

"So, you pass the time by practicing karate, or whatever it was you used to kick my ass?" Spike raised his hands in a pantomime of a karate chop, which elicited a chuckle from the older man.

"Jeet Kune Do," he corrected. "The way of the Intercepting Fist." That seemed to go straight over the teen's head. "Bruce Lee invented it back about a hundred years ago. It ain't nothing like any of the other martial arts."

"Really." Spike's interest seemed piqued. He tapped the end of his spoon against his chin. "Is it easy to learn?"

Morgan grinned. This was the kid's roundabout way of asking if he'd teach him a thing or two about it. "It's very easy if you've got your mind in the right place. It's all about your mindset, see?"

"Uh huh," Spike nodded. Morgan couldn't tell if he got it or not, but he sure did seem intrigued. "Like, in the zone?"

"Exactly. Once you've got your mind in the right place, your body will follow. The whole idea is that you make yourself like water. Gotta adapt to whatever situation you're in; be ready to flow in any direction at a moment's notice."

"I guess that makes sense."

"Right. Maybe I'll show you some tomorrow."

All that night, as Spike lay awake on the cramped bunk above Morgan's, he wondered where he was going. Not literally, since he'd overheard one of the other deckhands saying something about Earth and rock showers, but in his life. Looking back from where he came, the future seemed to hold just as much uncertainty as before. But something was different now. Whatever future lay ahead for him, it would be his. He would make it his own, rather than let circumstances dictate what he was going to be. He couldn't have been happier.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

"Alright, now get ready!" Spike fell into a relaxed stance, trying to make sure that his position didn't betray his next move. "Here goes!"

Morgan rushed at the lanky teen, fist raised to deliver a sharp uppercut to his chin. It didn't connect. At the last possible moment, Spike spun and deftly dodged the attack by a hair's breadth. Once he had, however, he lost his balance and fell in an ungainly sprawl.

Morgan let out a deep belly laugh. "Better, kid. Much better. But you gotta be concerned with balance at all times. That's one of the reasons Jeet Kune Do don't advocate high kicks unless they're necessary. Remember that."

"Aye aye," Spike muttered breathlessly from the floor. They seemed to be in this position a lot lately, Spike in an undignified heap with Morgan standing over him and laughing. He _was_ getting better, though.

"Alright, again!" Spike clambered to his feet and shook himself out, pushing his sweaty bangs out his eyes and setting his mouth into a determined frown. "Yaah!"

This time, as Morgan came at him, Spike was ready sooner. Not only was he able to dodge the attack, but his hand shot up, took Morgan's fist, and caught it. Spike threw all his weight forward, and managed to flip Morgan's mass over his shoulder.

"Oof!" Morgan landed hard on the deck, looking stunned, though Spike couldn't tell if it was because he was hurt or because Spike had actually taken him off guard. After a moment he rolled over and began laughing again, dispelling any notion Spike had of actually doing him damage. But he _was_ winded. "Spike, that was great!"

The teen grinned at the praise. "It was kickass is what it was. Like water."

"Like water," Morgan agreed. "Now, let's see if you can do it twice."

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

Hours later, a bruised and thoroughly schooled Spike crawled into the tiny crew shower to let the heat pound away his aches and cramps. By the end of the week, he'd be able to hold his own—though it wasn't by any means an easy or painless process. But at the same time he was learning to control his body, he was gaining a strange rapport with the older man. It was almost like he was Spike's… almost like his father.

Spike shook his head, dispelling that thought and droplets of water with it. Morgan was just a cool guy. Spike didn't need a dad. In a month or so, they'd make their first real stop on Earth, and he'd go, just like he came. No strings attached. And then he'd be free to do whatever he wanted. So why was he suddenly feeling homesick? Or stranger still, like he was at home here, on this piece of shit tanker?

Oh well, no use pondering it anymore. Especially since Tito needed the shower next. Tito liked to sing loud, and badly. Spike wouldn't be able to hear himself think, anyway.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

"Yeah, that's the last of 'em, Nolan," Spike called down, shifting the pallet of grease cans in line to save storage space. He hopped down off the shelf, too flimsy to hold anyone else's weight, and ran the back of his hand across his forehead. It sure was damn hot on this ship, especially when you were doing work. Three months, and he'd actually fallen in with the crew, helping them with menial work in return for the food they gave him.

"Good job, Spiegel." Nolan gave him a clap on the back, and pulled an orange out of his pocket as a reward. "Have at it."

Spike really didn't like being treated like a trained dog, but damn, did he want that orange. Plus, working kept him in shape. That was the only reason he helped out—or so he told himself.

"Hey, Spike?" Chester poked his head around the corner, motioning in Spike's direction. "Morgan said he wanted to see you. Since this'll be your last day on the _Desperado_ and all."

Spike nodded and followed him out, wringing his hands and wondering just what Morgan wanted. He had a good idea, though, which he confirmed upon seeing Morgan dressed in his sweats and a wifebeater. Sparring clothes.

"Hey, Spike-o," Morgan greeted him. Nothing different from any other time Spike saw him, but somehow he knew this time was different. This would be the last 24 hours Spike spent on the ship, but he just couldn't see that affecting Morgan in any real way. Still, there was something about him…

"Yo." Spike took the hint and let his jacket drop to the floor. "We gonna practice again today?"

Morgan shook his head. "Nah, little bud. Today it's the real thing. I know I bruised you up a lot the last coupla fights, but those were just training. Today I really wanna see what you got."

Spike grinned and his heartbeat sped up in his chest. He'd been hoping this would happen, had looked forward to it like all his rich fuck friends had done for Christmas back on Mars. Somewhere, deep down, he realized this was his chance to prove himself. Prove what, he wasn't sure. Something. "Looking forward to showing you."

"Bring it on, Spiegel," Morgan taunted good-naturedly. He fell into the quintessential open pose, ready to react in any way he needed to at a moment's notice. Spike responded by shifting into offense mode.

"Strike hard, strike fast. Beat him to his own moves. Like water." Spike murmured his mantras under his breath, inaudible to Morgan, who nonetheless grinned at his pupil's diligence. Or was it negligence?

"Grahh!" Without warning, Morgan's stance flickered from defensive to aggressive, and Spike was taken by surprise. Morgan's fist came at him with alarming speed, and he hardly had time to duck aside. He missed Morgan's foot, which lashed out at him at the same time, and caught his legs. The deck rushed up to meet his face, but he turned the stumble into a neat roll, back on his feet in a second.

"Arghh!" Spike turned his momentum into a lunge, striking out at Morgan's midsection with one fist, while feinting with the other. He managed to land a hit on Morgan's ribs, but Morgan spun around behind him and gave him a sound thwack to the head.

"Reaction time, kid!"

Spike's face reddened, and he redoubled his efforts, twisting around like a panther and landing a sweeping kick on the back of Morgan's knee. Morgan came crashing down, rolling across the floor and out of the way as Spike attempted to bring his foot down on Morgan's gut. "Dammit, come here!"

"Only if you catch me," Morgan grinned. He scrambled away, making a mad dash for the wall. Spike thought he was nuts and lunged after him, until Morgan made a spectacular leap, ran _up_ the wall and flipped back over Spike's head.

"Whaa?" Morgan just laughed. Spike, now frustrated as well as amazed, threw a series of lightning-fast punches at Morgan, and actually managed to land a few. Morgan's stamina just wasn't like it used to be, and Spike, as Morgan so often put it, was still just a kid. He had the energy to outlast his opponent, even if no other strategy worked. But Spike wanted to _beat_ him. He swung his leg up in a high kick, just the kind Morgan wouldn't be prepared for. He felt his foot connect hard with Morgan's jaw, and used the moment of shock to land another four blows to his stomach, his shoulder and his ribs.

"Ungh…" Morgan fell back a few steps, obviously surprised. He rubbed at his jaw a bit, but he wasn't about to give up. Not yet, at least. He rushed Spike, just like the first time they'd ever sparred. Spike, without a moment's hesitation, pirouetted out of reach, stuck out a foot, and as Morgan tripped over it, Spike brought his elbow down hard on the older man's spine. Morgan hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, and like that, the match was over.

"Morgan, you okay?" Spike asked, concern seeping into his voice. He really hadn't meant to hit his mentor that hard.

"Urrrggh… you win." Spike laughed. If he was still talking, he was okay. Morgan rolled over and gingerly got to his feet. "I'm really impressed, kid. You'd give me a run for my money on any given day. And you learned those moves in half the time it'da took me."

The teen grinned sheepishly. "I guess I'm just a fast learner. But, thanks. I'm… I'm actually gonna miss it here."

"Yeah, I'll miss you too, kid," Morgan chuckled, ruffling Spike's already mussed mop of hair.

"Hey, who said anything about missing _you_?" Spike said in mock affront. But both of them knew it was true anyway.

"Hey, kid," Morgan called after him as he went to leave for the last time.

"Yeah?" Spike paused, sounding for all the world like a scared, hopeful young teenager about to head out into the unknown.

"See you around."

"Yeah."

He never did. But he never forgot either.


	3. RUSH Part 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bebop, its characters or concepts and make no profit from this writing, yada, yada, yada.

**A/N:** Tell me how I'm doing! I'm not so good with action scenes, so I'm a bit anxious. Feedback loved and appreciated! NOTE: A Kirkwood Gap is a ring in in the asteroid belt in which there are no asteroids, similar to the gaps in the rings of Saturn.

"Aaand he's just entered the Kirkwood Gap, cutting off Salenas! That's two checkpoints down for Doohan, two to go! Behind Salenas in a close third is Number Three, Hopper, in the _Nighthawk_. Numbers Two, Five and Six are at least a half a checkpoint behind. What a surprise! _Swordfish II_ is giving them all a run for their money!"

Spike pumped his elbow in a subtle gesture of victory. If the race kept up like this, he'd be winning double his money back. Everybody said he was crazy betting on Doohan, considering what had happened to _Swordfish I_, but Spike had taken one look at his machine and liked it. It was a gorgeous, streamlined thing of beauty.

"Spiegel!" Spike jerked to attention, removing his feet from the desk and wincing as the front legs of his chair hit the ground with a bang. He flicked off his tiny television set before his boss, Nugent, could see what he was watching. "Spiegel, I have a job for you," Nugent said gruffly, looking over Spike's shoulder at the unfinished inventory sheet he was supposed to have been working on. He handed Spike a clipboard. "I want you to take this out to Reggie Parker for me. And make sure he signs the invoice; this is a rare part."

"Sure thing," Spike mumbled, dipping his hat as he looked the sheet over. "Kind of out of the way, isn't it?"

"Out of the way of rock showers, too," Nugent acknowledged. "And listen, don't let me find out about you pulling stunts in my truck again. _Or_ sneaking off to the betting house. You gamble off my money again and I'll—"

"Yeah, yeah." Spike cut him off, ignoring him when his face turned red. Nugent really was a tool. "I'll be back shortly."

"You'd better!" Spike briefly contemplated giving him the finger, but decided that keeping his job, however crappy it was, might be a good thing.

He'd been here three months on Earth, and already he wanted to get away. Not back to Mars, and not even the _Desperado_, but anywhere else was looking good. Earth was hot, for the most part a crumbling, moldering wasteland. And the rock showers were no fun, either. The underground cities were nice, but far too expensive for Spike to pay rent. So for the here and now, he was stuck on the dull, scorched surface, in a shitty job trying to raise enough money to get off-planet again. In between pari-mutuel betting, that was.

He spun the key to the delivery truck around his finger as he made his way out to the parking lot. It was a beast of an old zip craft, beaten up even before he laid his hands on the controls. But since Spike had started working for Nugent, it'd taken even more of a beating. It was an older model, sluggish and slow, but he'd managed some pretty sick maneuvers out in the desert where there was no one to watch him. This delivery was out to the middle of nowhere. Yeah, he was gonna have some fun.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

"Waaaahahahaha!" Spike crowed against the wind, which whipped his hair into his stinging eyes. He pulled a sharp turn around a chimney-like rock formation and the G-forces pulled his grin even wider. Honestly, if Nugent wanted his truck in one piece, he shouldn't have hired Spike. He was a good driver, just, as he put it, 'not the delicate, cautious type' at all. He skirted the edge of a sharp outcropping, swerving back over two lanes of traffic to get back on the road to Reggie's. He'd only be a few minutes late.

Some time later, Spike pulled off the exit ramp and skimmed low over a long, dirt road that disappeared out on the horizon. This really _was_ the middle of nowhere. He followed the road for several minutes, checking and double-checking the directions. Yeah, this was right. Soon, he came upon a large warehouse, converted from on old airplane hanger. 'Reggie's Aerospace Outfitters' was painted in faded, story-tall lettering on the side.

Spike touched down, sending a dust cloud flying. When he opened the hatch it was like getting hit with a brick, the heat was so sweltering. He removed his jacket and tied it over his head like the desert nomads of the history books. The whole place was surrounded by junk, and it took him considerable time and effort to pick out a path to the door without getting cut up. A trashy place, just like the rest of Earth.

He gave a knock on the wide metal door when he got to it, and jumped when it reverberated throughout the whole building. He could vaguely make out the sound of huge fans, someone inside cutting the radio off, and footsteps approaching the door. The massive door opened a crack, with a horrible screeching whine that send a shiver down Spike's spine.

"Come on in!" The voice came from the other side, amplified by the large hangar space. Spike stared down at the one-foot crack at the bottom of the door. Then, with a sigh, he dropped to his stomach, sliding first the package under and then himself. He felt a strong hand pull him to his feet. "Hey there."

"Yo." Spike knelt down and picked up the package, handing it to the bear of a man who accepted it with almost childlike glee.

"Yes! Yes! Perfect!" He brushed a pile of junk from a table with a massive forearm and placed the package down, ripping the tape away to get to the part. "In perfect condition, too! Glad you didn't treat it rough like some guys do."

Spike scratched his head a little guiltily. He'd been anything _but_ gentle on the way over here. "Eheheh, no problem."

"Oh, Doohan's gonna be stoked!" He set the part on a shelf, then turned to see Spike blinking at him. "What?"

"Doohan, you said? You mean the asteroid racer who built _Swordfish_?"

"The same," the man nodded. "I'm Reggie, his outfitter and supplier." He extended a hand and Spike shook it, trying to hide his reaction to the man's extra-firm grip. "And speaking of which!" He suddenly abandoned Spike and ran over to the other end of the hanger, where he'd strung up a ridiculously large plasma screen TV. "The race should be almost over!"

Spike eagerly followed uninvited, though Reggie didn't seem to mind the intrusion. Reggie flipped through channels until the familiar bright red of the _Swordfish II_'s paint job whizzed by on screen. "There!"

"—_Swordfish II_, followed very closely by reigning champion Hopper in the _Nighthawk_," the announcer's voice came over the sound of the huge fans keeping the building cool. "What an upset for Salenas, who was a favorite at the betting polls today. And Doohan is in the lead! Who would have guessed it?" Spike grinned at the news. The video feed switched to the final checkpoint's tracking camera, which caught the two ships at a distance, now vying neck and neck for first place.

"Come on, come on!" Spike whispered under his breath. Similarly, Reggie had his fingers crossed, and Spike could guess that the large man had money on Doohan as well.

"And they're entering the last stretch of space before the final checkpoint! Only two hundred more klicks to go."

Spike unconsciously stopped breathing, eyes glued to the screen. The final stretch was always the hardest, coming out of the Kirkwood Gap and into one of the densest strings of asteroids in the belt. Not only would the ships be jockeying against each other, but avoiding getting slammed to bits at the same time. It was high stakes for the pilot as much as it was for the bettors.

"Oh, look out!" _Nighthawk_ barely missed colliding with a house-sized asteroid, doing a last minute barrel roll to avoid it. _Swordfish _took the opportunity and ran with it, firing its jets for an extra burst of speed. But _Nighthawk_ was quick to make it up. "And Hopper's catching up! It's still close, fellows. A hundred more klicks to the finish line!" The two ships swerved and dodged and pirouetted through the obstacles, like a trippy, cosmic ballet. What Spike wouldn't have given to be in the _Swordfish_ right then.

_Nighthawk_ pulled ahead by a tad, and a string of colorful curse words escaped Spike's lips. "—God damn mother fucking—" He cut himself off as the unthinkable happened; one of _Nighthawk_'s wing stabilizers grazed _Swordfish_'s undercarriage, and the two stuck.

"Oh my word, are you getting this?" the announcer breathed. This looks bad. I'm getting flashbacks of the _Swordfish I_ here. Just a few more kilometers, and—"

An explosion. _Nighthawk_'s wing broke free, and a piece of the _Swordfish _ came with it, spiraling off and ricocheting against the engine. _Swordfish _began trailing smoke, listing dangerously to one side and wobbling.

"Oh my, this could be a tragedy here today. But wait, wait… Look! It's a miracle! Doohan's somehow regained control, holy shit! Oh wait, am I allowed to say that on air?"

And it was true. The whole ship was vibrating erratically, but Doohan compensated beautifully by cutting his lateral boosters. The ship spun, jerked forward, and—

"OH MY GOD!" the announcer yelled, deafening over the microphone, which wasn't meant to pick up such loud volumes. "DOOHAN WINS!!"

"Yes!" Spike and Reggie cried simultaneously, turning to give each other high fives. Spike immediately grabbed and cradled his wrist, but it didn't put a damper on his jubilation. "Holy Moses, that was close."

"Sure was," Reggie replied. "Here, have some lemonade." He turned and poured another cup from a pitcher he had sitting on the table, and Spike accepted it gratefully. Reggie offered him a rickety old stool and they sat and watched the damaged _Swordfish_ pull in and get towed off to the pit. Then came the accolades, and the three ranking pilots stepped out onto the winner's rostrum.

"I had an exactor bet on Doohan and Hopper, yanno," Reggie said between sips, swirling his ice around. But Spike wasn't paying attention. Instead, he stared at the screen, eyes squinted.

"Is… is that Doohan?"

"Yup."

"He's _old._"

Reggie let out a guffaw. "Well he's not young, that's for sure. But he's a sharp fellow, and a damn good pilot." He got up to go dump the ice out his cup. Spike lingered behind, still staring at the short man with grizzled gray hair, looking cool and unbothered while camera flashes came from every direction. But Spike wasn't fooled. He could see the pride in the man's eyes, even through the pixels.

"How much do I owe ya?" Reggie asked, coming back with a rolled up wad of woolongs in his hand. Spike gazed at them thoughtfully, glanced down at his clipboard—and suddenly it hit him. A broad smile stretched across his face.

"A favor."

"Huh?" Reggie asked, scratching his head in a comical cartoon gesture. "What kind of favor are you talking about, kid?"

Spike laughed and clarified, "Just one thing. I'll pay the shipping out of my own pocket if you can get me in to see Doohan."

Reggie raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, kid, he's a busy guy. Always working or tinkering with something. But hey, I'll see what I can do."

Spike grinned as Reggie slipped the woolongs back into his pocket. The idea he was hatching was terrible, could very likely get him arrested. But that was possibly the biggest fun _in_ the plan.

He was going to steal the _Swordfish_.


	4. RUSH Part 2

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't sue. I make no profits.

Spike leaned against the delivery truck, smoking one of the cigarettes he'd found in the pocket of his used uniform. Xing Mao, some brand he'd never heard of. They tasted like ass, but he'd gone from twenty cigarettes to twelve, to two in the week since he'd started smoking them. For now, they were just a way to calm his nerves, but he wondered if it would become an addiction when this was all over.

The phone in his pocket went off, startling him so badly he dropped the cigarette into the sand. "Shit!" He quickly forgot about it, anxiously pressing the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Yo kid, I got in touch with Doohan, and he's free this afternoon," Reggie's voice crackled over the speaker. "Go over there between three and four and he'll talk to you or whatever."

"Thanks a lot," Spike replied quickly, and hung up. With trembling fingers he fished in his pocket for the last cigarette, put it to his lips and fumbled with the lighter. When it lit he took a long drag, slumping back against the truck. What he was planning was serious business, not like the minor thefts he'd been involved with back on Mars. This was a world-renowned monoracer, and he was just going to lift it. People would definitely notice. But at least no one would be able to catch him, he mused.

Two-thirty hit and Spike snuffed his cig on the side of the truck. He quickly changed out of his ratty uniform and back into his own clothes, so that if he died trying to pull this off, he'd at least go looking somewhat respectable.

Like Reggie's, Doohan's place was in the middle of nowhere, and Spike nearly got lost three times on the way. He just couldn't concentrate on the road, so it seemed. Not while he had a grand theft auto to work out. He still wasn't a hundred percent sure what he was going to do, but he always had his gun in case things got nasty. This was one of those cases where Morgan's favorite saying seemed appropriate. Whatever happens, happens.

Spike knew he was nearing Doohan's even from miles away. The place was well-kept up, with a monstrous, whitewashed hangar, but all around it, as far as the eye could see, was an airplane graveyard. Spike slowed down as he approched the building, eyeing all the old, proud relics. Saab J-35 Draken, de Havilland Vampire, SR-71 Blackbird, Douglas DC-3… Spike recognized many of the planes from the models he'd built back when his family could afford that kind of thing. He would have given a nut just to be able to sit in the cockpit of one of those beasts.

"Ho-lee shit." None of them, however, compared to the _Swordfish_. There she was, paint job glinting in the sunlight. The undercarriage had been repaired, by the looks of it, and Spike would have been none the wiser that anything had ever happened to the plane. He parked the truck at a distance and climbed out, enamored by its sleek silhouette. She was so much more beautiful in person. Spike advanced slowly, then with steady fingers, reached out to lay a hand on one beautiful wingtip.

"Pretty little gal, isn't she?"

"Wah!" Spike leapt backwards and nearly lost his balance. Standing behind him was Doohan, much dirtier and greasier than he'd appeared on TV, holding a wrench in his hand. He looked like a wild man, gray hair poking out in every direction around his welding goggles. "Yeah," Spike breathed, trying to calm his racing heart. "She really is."

He must have looked guilty. Doohan pushed his goggles up and gave him a piercing, searching look, and like a slug under salt, Spike felt his confidence shriveling away. A discreet brush of his hand against the gun under his shirt, though, was enough to bring it back.

"Why did you say you wanted to see me?" Doohan asked. "You're not here for just a tour, are you?" He tapped the wrench against his palm, as if trying to put his finger on just where Spike's motives lay. Smart man. He wasn't falling for this.

Spike took a deep breath and closed his fingers around the cool polymer grip of the pistol. "I'm taking your ship."

"And just how do you plan on—" He promptly closed his mouth when Spike drew the gun. He raised an eyebrow, followed by his hands. "Ah. Not the delicate type, are we?"

Spike smirked. "Not at all. Keys." He kept the gun trained on Doohan's head as the man reached under his belt for a large keyring and tossed it Spike's way. "Is she fueled?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Shut your trap, old man!" Spike threatened, starting to feel giddy. This was easier than taking candy from a baby. Or a decrepit old man, as it were.

"Listen—"

"Shut up!" He snatched the keys from the dust and fired a round into the ground five inches from Doohan's left foot. The man hunkered down with his hands over his head, and Spike took the opportunity to run for it.

He vaulted onto the craft's wing, searching for the cockpit pod's release catch. It opened with a satisfying hiss and Spike slipped down into the seat, feverish excitement making his nerves thrum and sing. This would take some concentration, since the vehicle was quite a step up from any of the shitty zip crafts he'd flown prior.

"Let's see… ignition." That was the easy part. The correct key was obvious, nestled among tiny building keys. Spike stuck it in the ignition, gave it a twist, and the monocomputer flickered on. "Yes!" He was in business. The throttle was just to the right, and he pushed it forward. The rocket engine roared to life, vibrating right up through the floorboards and the pilot seat. Beautiful.

"Taxi, taxi…" Spike pushed the throttle further still, and a great plume of blue afterburn shot out, making the dust swirl all around. He lost Doohan in the vortex, but it was okay, because the _Swordfish_ was moving forward. He was gonna get away with this! He eased his hands over the side-mounted joysticks and his feet found the pedals for controlling yaw. This wasn't so hard… The spacecraft gained speed, jerking a bit when the landing gear left the ground. Spike crowed in jubilation as the earth and Doohan's shop fell away. He was airborne.

If only Doohan were seeing this. Spike shot up to a nice altitude, banking left and circling the whole complex in wide, lazy loops. The craft handled like a dream. But no, he didn't see Doohan down there among the plane skeletons. Odd… Where was the old codger? His heart caught in his throat when one of the planes on the ground began to move. The J-35 Draken. "Oh, fucksticks."

Spike remembered enough about the Draken as an aircraft to realize that Doohan had every kind of advantage there was here. The jet was fast, maneuverable, and _armed_. The _Swordfish_ wasn't. Fast, for sure, but designed more for space flight than atmospheric.

And there were the technical difficulties the _Swordfish_ had been having since the race. Of course his boneheaded self had interrupted Doohan's warning. Doohan cursed. The thieving brat would find out soon enough—when he ran Doohan's work of art into the ground. This was going to be very bad.

Spike pulled out of his circling loop, tearing west in the direction opposite the city. The city was where the cops were. And even if Doohan couldn't stop him, there was a chance the cops could. Instead, he trimmed the flaps, nosing the craft higher. Toward the stars. Tijuana was sounding pretty good, actually.

A ping on the radar caught Spike's attention and he glanced down. "Well, shit." The Draken had taken off, and was slowly but steadily gaining on him. He pushed the throttle further forward, soaring ever higher. _His_ advantage lay in the fact that Doohan's craft had a service ceiling, past which he couldn't follow, since there was no oxygen for its turbojet to combust. _Swordfish_ had no such limitation.

However, Doohan was desperate. He quickly climbed to the _Swordfish_'s altitude, pushing his afterburners for all they were worth. Spike cursed and brought himself around in a tight loop. If he couldn't shoot Doohan, he'd have to outmaneuver him. But the Draken followed, pulling an even tighter loop. Damn, that plane was maneuverable. Spike dropped, determined to put the old man to the test. The Draken dived after him, and Doohan cut the afterburners to save on fuel. Hah! Spike used the slow in Doohan's momentum to jet ahead, rocketing upward toward the stars once more.

A blinking light on the control panel caught Spike's attention, and he glanced down at it. It was a CB transmission. "Huh?" He reached down and adjusted the band until he heard a crackling voice.

"—You fucking idiot, come back!"

Spike growled, ready to cut the radio off, but Doohan's next words captured his attention.

"You'll crash if you don't come back!" Interference created static over the rest, but Spike made out, "Malfunction—monocomputer!"

He looped around, catching a glimpse of Doohan, a tiny speck almost ten thousand feet below. Spike was already above Doohan's service ceiling, where the air was too thin for his jet. Was this a trick?

Just then, at seventy thousand feet above sea level, the interface flashed an ominous red. "Warning, monocomputer mal—" And then, it simply cut off.

"Goddammit!"

"I tried to tell you, you stubborn little shit!" came Doohan's panicked, exasperated cry. "But no, you had to go off and be a cocky little wiseass. Now I'm gonna lose my ship!"

And it certainly seemed that way. No ship had been built after 2010 without some kind of guidance computer to make up for pilot error, especially with a ship as aerodynamically unstable as this. But without the monocomputer running a trillion computations a second and correcting his errors, the craft began dropping like a stone.

"Oh, God." Spike called on everything he knew about flying. The first instinct for most pilots in an uncontrolled dive was to cut the thrusters. Spike knew better. He rammed them forward, switching the failsafe toward manual control. He turned the flaps up and the craft pulled out of the dive and began to level off, albeit unsteadily.

"Holy… Impressive," he heard Doohan mutter. He'd caught up to Spike, and was flanking him, watching his every move with an eager eye. Spike scoffed at having to have an audience, but he had no choice. It was in both of their best interests for Spike to stay alive. He was fine at level flight, but he'd have to descend someday. He held his breath, said a short prayer to Hashem and nosed downward.

"Look out—"

The _Swordfish_ immediately swerved, yawing right so hard that Spike heard the airframe creak. "Oh shit, oh shit!"

"Dutch roll! Pilot induced oscillation."

"English, please?!" Spike called frantically as another swerve and roll in the opposite direction flung him against the side of the pod. The ship couldn't take much more of this.

"Look, just try—compensate, or you'll break up. You gotta—sist what the stick wants to do, and make the ship d—what _you_ want to do instead. Got it?"

"Got it," Spike replied more confidently. Doohan sighed and brought a hand up to his temple. He could already see the _Swordfish_ crashing and burning into a charred pile of oblivion. And as much as he'd like to see that happen to the kid, he didn't think it was worth his ship.

"Hey, I got it!"

"Huh?" Doohan jerked his gaze from his instrument panel and back toward the kid. It was… true? "Whoa, whaa—it's a miracle!" He jerked the flaps of the Draken back, sending it into a spectacular vertical acrobatic maneuver. An aerial gesture of triumph. _Swordfish _jerked and shimmied all the way back down to earth, but within a few minutes the landing gear were touching the sweet, sweet ground near the back entrance of Doohan's compound.

"Waaahahaha!" Doohan crowed as he tumbled out of the Draken and tossed his helmet down. "Kid, that was—that was… hot damn." He jogged over to where Spike was just sliding out of the cockpit.

Spike's feet hit the ground, and though he thought he was alright, his knees nearly gave out. He was shaking, although at the time he hadn't given much thought to what would happen if he died. It really had been a close call. He saw Doohan approaching him with a jubilant grin, and relaxed a bit. Big mistake.

WHAM! Doohan's fist connected so hard with the side of Spike's skull that he saw white. The horizon suddenly shifted, and he hit the ground hard. Doohan brushed his hands off, dropping his gloves on Spike's back.

"That was some amazing flying, kiddo. There are trained pilots who couldn't do that. But if you EVER come near my ship again, I will gut you. Eviscerate you. Intestines all over the floor."

Somehow, Spike didn't doubt that. He'd really underestimated the old guy, "You… gonna call the cops?" Spike groaned, propping himself on one elbow, his head hung in acceptance. This would be prison time for sure.

"Doohan seemed to ponder the question, then scooped down and pulled the gun out of Spike's waistband to weak protest. "I've got a better idea." He held the gun in his hand, turning it over and trying it out. "Up, slave boy."

"Huh?" Spike shook his head indignantly. "What do you mean?"

"I'll cut you a deal, mop-head." He examined the gun carefully, maintaining a cool detachment. "I need an assistant, you see. Work gets hard around here. So I don't call the cops on you, and you work for me."

"No fucking wa—"

"You work for me long enough to pay off all the parts I'll need to fix the _Swordfish_. Then you can go, free as a bird." He fluttered a hand in exaggerated demonstration.

"You're crazy if you think I'll work for you," Spike growled, rolling slowly back onto his feet.

"What's your alternative?" Doohan grinned.

Spike stilled, thinking about that one for a moment. Prison certainly didn't sound very appealing. And, well, Doohan was pointing his own gun at him. He sighed in resignation, holding his hands out. "Alright. But I'm not your fucking 'slave boy', you got that?"

"Right."

Thus did Spike learn the importance of not being a blockhead. Not that he remembered it.

**A/N:** Can you tell I like airplanes?

I'm anal about details, so my reasoning behind this chapter is as follows: Spike says in Session 1 that he's had the _Swordfish_ for ten years, meaning he got it when he was seventeen. Then, in Session 19, he mentions that he's flown the _Swordfish_ sans monosystem once before. Doohan tells him, "I didn't give you the _Swordfish_ for nothing." Then Spike remarks about Doohan being so grumpy that he'll scare off _another_ assistant. I began thinking, what if Spike was the other assistant once? How would he impress Doohan so much that he'd give him _Swordfish_? And under what circumstances did he first pilot it with no monosystem? I strung the answers to those questions together in this chapter.

Dedicated to Kimi The Great, whose story Future Blues you should definitely check out!


	5. Pushing the Sky

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Cowboy Bebop. If I did, Spike would be naked. All the time.

It was a hundred and ten degrees. Fahrenheit, that was. No animal would be caught dead out in this heat, and yet Doohan and Spike were still out working on the De Havilland Vampire. Spike had started off in all his clothes, but was now down to just a pair of shorts. Doohan at least got to stay in the shadow under the aircraft. Damn him.

"Spike, hand me that pneumatic wrench there, will ya?" Doohan slid out from under the plane on his creeper and looked at Spike expectantly.

Spike sighed, shaking his head and flinging sweat from his drenched mop of hair. He swore one of these days he was going to shave it all off. That or just kill Doohan, which was looking like the more attractive option. He climbed atop the plane's wing for the toolbox, hissing at the heat radiating from its metal surface. One of these days…

Doohan took the tool without thanks. Without any comment at all. Though Spike was far too caught up in male posturing to mention anything about it, he had to admit it would be nice to be acknowledged now and then. He growled and knelt down to fish the cigarettes and lighter out the pocket of his shirt. Once he'd lit one, he flopped back against the shadow side of the plane.

"That habit's gonna kill you one day, Spike, m'boy," came Doohan's voice from underneath the plane.

Dammit! How did Doohan even know he'd lit up? There was no way he could have seen him from down there. It was like the guy had x-ray vision or something. Unlike Nugent, his old boss, Doohan was always wise to his slacking.

"Are we almost done here?" Spike groused, kneeling down and deliberately breathing smoke at the old man. "It's like a thousand degrees, and we've been out here for six hours. And it's five minutes past dinnertime."

Doohan chuckled. "I swear, kid, half my expenses these days are on food. Did your mother ever tell you you're a bottomless pit?"

"Only every day," Spike muttered.

"But I told you. We're not done until this thing flies. Dinner can wait." And with that, he promptly turned his attention back on the stubborn bolt he'd been working on.

"You're not serious!" Spike whined. "This plane's even older than you! That'll take weeks!"

Doohan decided not to tell Spike he was only joking, pasting on his poker face but inwardly laughing. Spike was a good kid deep down, but boy was he fun to mess with.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sun had been down for about an hour when Doohan finally decided to call it quits and the two of them headed back to the hanger. Spike complained the whole time; he was starving, Doohan was torturing him, and now his stomach was imploding. "I never want to look at another plane again!" he said as he flung himself on his stool. But when Doohan placed a bowl of chili in front of him, the sentiment was quickly forgotten.

"Do you think that old relic will ever fly?" he asked Doohan as the older man sat down across from him. "I mean, is it even possible?"

Doohan was a bit surprised by the earnestness and hopefulness in his question, but decided to act like he hadn't noticed. "Oh, I don't know. _I_ have faith she will. There's only a few more adjustments I need to make to finish 'er. After that, we'll see."

"Hmm." Spike stirred at his chili nonchalantly. Doohan wasn't fooled.

"Hey, don't worry."

Spike looked up, first confusion, then irritation registering in his expression. Damn, Doohan thought. He shouldn't have gone there. Any hint of a suggestion against Spike's masculine detachment got the teenager in a huff. Kids. Spike rolled his eyes, and grumbled, "Whatever."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spike rolled fitfully on his cot that night. He was beginning to regret ever getting off the _Desperado_ on its stop to Earth. He liked Doohan, he really did. At least in small amounts. The man had some infuriating habits, and he couldn't be called 'nice' by any stretch of the imagination. His planes were amazing, and Spike truly enjoyed being around them. But after three months, with his seventeenth birthday looming close on the horizon, he couldn't help but feel like he was stagnating. This was definitely not what he had signed up for. Of course, it was all his fault for not planning his theft of the _Swordfish_ better. He would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for that meddling old man. Oh, well. Only five hundred more work hours till he had paid off his debt and he was free.

At three a.m., he rolled off his cot and stalked as carefully as he was able out of the hangar and to the mammoth silhouette of the Vampire. He needed a good head start if he wanted to get the thing flying before sunup.

At seven sharp, Doohan slammed his hand down on his alarm clock and trudged blearily out of his office into the main room. Spike's cot was empty. "Huh?" Well, that was unusual. Normally it took Doohan five minutes to get the lunkhead out of bed. The coffee was made already, so Doohan took a cup to silently puzzle over this new development. A quick glance over at his desk told him that his notes on the Vampire repairs were missing. Aha.

A bemused Doohan made his way out the huge hangar doors and out to the Vampire. The early morning sun caught on the plane's sleek exterior, and Doohan had to shield his eyes to locate Spike. He was laid out on Doohan's creeper, elbow deep in the guts of the plane. Doohan was alarmed at first. He'd never let Spike do any of the serious work before. But then, Spike was a sharp kid, and Doohan's notes were impeccable. Slowly, the alarm gave way to something else. Honest and heartfelt appreciation.

Doohan approached the plane, standing several feet away and waiting silently until his presence was noticed. It was about thirty seconds before Spike sensed the shadow over him and rolled out with a guilty look on his face.

"Oh, h-hey Doohan. I just… ah." It was another few seconds before Spike realized that Doohan wasn't upset. On the other hand, he was grinning. "Morning, Doohan."

"Morning, Spike. What you working on?" He stuck a toothpick between his teeth and chewed it out of conversational habit.

"The last bit of wiring, actually. I've already checked out all the hydraulics and the mechanical systems. Turbojet compressor and turbine are both working like a charm." He closed the panel he was working on, sliding out and brushing off his hands. "And I understand why you stuck with the old turbojet instead of a turbofan. Sticking one of those on a classic beauty like this would be a travesty."

Doohan blinked his astonishment. Usually no one understood his obsession for authenticity. This whole thing was unexpected, and Spike was giving him one surprise after another. "Is she… is she ready to fly?" He honestly couldn't think of anything else to say.

Spike seemed to enjoy having taken Doohan by surprise like that. It hadn't been his true intention, but it was a nice bonus to have the slave driver speechless. "Yeah, she's ready, whenever you want to run a full systems check."

"Well," Doohan mumbled, circling the plane with an admiring eye. Spike had even washed and waxed the beauty. "Well." He examined it, checking each part systematically. When he was done, he climbed in the cockpit, checked all the gauges and started her up. He leaned back in the seat, enjoying the satisfying roar of the turbojet engine. "Well."

Spike found it hard to keep the grin off his face, though he was loath for Doohan to know how proud he was of himself and his hard work. God forbid he find any enjoyment out of hard labor. The jet cut off and he almost missed the keys tossed in a high arc toward his head. "Woah! Huh?"

Doohan hopped out the plane, giving Spike an inscrutable look that Spike nonetheless got a sense of appreciation and approval from. "Go ahead. She needs a pilot for her maiden 21st century flight."

"Are you—are you s-serious?" Spike stammered, losing his cool for an instant. "You gotta be crazy, old man. This is _your_ plane."

"You think I don't know that, kid?" Doohan chuckled. "Now get in and start her up before I change my mind."

Spike beamed, something Doohan had never expected to see. Then he and Doohan traded places, Spike settling into the pilot seat and slipping the flight mask over his face. Doohan felt a pang of anxiety as the canopy closed and the plane slowly taxied out to the runway. A glance in the _Swordfish_'s direction dispelled any doubts he had. This _was_ the kid who had landed her with no computers at all. He could handle this.

Spike trimmed the jet nozzle, creating thrust and inching the aircraft forward. His heart was pounding in his chest. This was absolutely nothing like flying the _Swordfish_ or any zip craft. It was nothing like… well, anything. It was exhilarating. The plane picked up speed, landing gear bouncing off the asphalt. Then they lifted, and the earth fell away like so much sand spilling from between his fingers. He was flying. Holy shit, he was flying!

Doohan cheered and whooped from the ground. Spike's flight pattern was a bit shaky and erratic, but the plane was in the air alright. He trimmed the flaps and executed a beautiful roll, followed by a sharp bank. The plane really was acrobatic, for being over a century old. And even though Spike was in the cockpit, and not him, Doohan felt as though it were a moment of triumph. For both of them.

Spike circled a few more times and brought the aircraft in line with the landing strip. Doohan directed him from the ground, watching as the twin booms touched down first, followed by the front wheel. It really was a beautiful flight.

Spike taxied back into the plane's previous parking spot, then let the jet cool down before cutting it off. He was surprised a second time when he climbed out of the plane, as Doohan rushed up and gave him a clap on the back.

"You did it again, kid."

"What?" Spike breathed, still on the adrenaline high of flight.

"I'm impressed," Doohan explained with a quirk of his brow.

"Oh, stop," Spike groused, but the words truly meant something to him. "I did it for myself as much as you."

This time it was Doohan's turn to roll his eyes. "Whatever."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A week later, it was the same scenario as before—Doohan on his creeper, under the SR-71, and Spike sweating in the baking hot sun, twiddling his thumbs until his assistance was required. Every now and then he let out a 'tch' of displeasure and ground another of his cigarettes into the sand at his feet. Even though Doohan only let him smoke outside, he was already on his third pack this week. "How long are we gonna be out here today?" he demanded, thumping the spanner in his hand against the plane's hull in annoyance. A grunt was Doohan's only reply.

Unbeknownst to Spike, the explanation for just why it was taking so long was a complicated one. The wiring was tedious, to be sure, but Doohan's mind wasn't all there, either. He kept thinking about things. Things he wouldn't have even considered three months ago.

"Argh," Spike growled, flopping to the ground in the shade of the plane and dousing himself liberally from their shared canteen. He closed his eyes, and Doohan took the liberty of glancing in the boy's direction. Doohan was no fool. He knew that Spike would rather be anywhere than here, no matter how strong his interest in planes and flight. He was a free spirit. A wildcard. As cliché as it sounded, Doohan knew this stagnation was killing him. And as much as he hated to admit it, he'd grown fond of the little bastard.

"Pleeeease can we go in for dinner?" he whined, even though it was barely four o'clock.

"Fine, fine," Doohan finally relented, tossing his caliper at a bemused Spike. The old man rarely gave in to Spike's pestering. Something must have been up.

He followed Doohan back to the hangar, where he seemed distracted as he concocted some sort of bean soup for them. Or something. Doohan's cooking was usually quite palatable, but it was heavy on the salt this afternoon.

"What's up?" Spike mumbled between gulps of milk to wash the stuff down. "You look… out of it."

Well, Doohan was never one to mince his words. "I'm letting you go," he said, then took a sip of soup as if he hadn't just knocked the socks right off Spike's feet.

"Letting me go? You're… you're _firing_ me?" Spike was highly confused by this whole business, and made his frustration plain by jabbing his fork in the wooden table. "Care to explain, old man?"

"No, not firing. I'm letting you go. Boy like you needs space. Freedom. Consider your debt paid," he elaborated. He pointedly ignored Spike's mild curse of surprise and the splash of soup that sloshed over his bowl when Spike's fist followed his fork in slamming on the table.

"Fuck, man. Are you—? You're serious. But I still got two months left to work and pay off that repair!"

Doohan smiled, lacing his fingers together. "It still needs repairing, and you're still gonna work to pay it off. But you're gonna do it yourself, on your own time and your own standards."

It took Spike a moment to figure out what Doohan was insinuating. "Pay it off… on my own time. You don't… No. Nuh-uh."

Doohan reached under his belt, then unclipped a single key. He slid it across the table to Spike, who stared at it with wide eyes.

"No, old man. You're nuts. You're crazy! No. Nononono." Doohan hadn't seen Spike this flustered or anxious in the three months he'd known the kid. It was something else, and he was enjoying it highly.

"C'mon," he prodded. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. Sat on it for a whole week before making up my mind." He leaned on his elbow, fixing Spike with a serious stare. "Face it, kid. You're an exceptional pilot. Almost as good as me. And, well…" he sighed, flexing his arm a little, "I just ain't as strong as I used to be. But you, you're young. You got a whole future ahead of you. I just don't think I'm up to racing her anymore. That's why I'm giving _Swordfish_ to you."

It was a quite a speech, coming from the normally gruff and silent Doohan, and Spike shook his head during the entirety of it. "I can't just take your ship. You spent _years_ putting it together."

Doohan laughed. "Shit, kid, you think I'm just gonna give it to you, no strings attached? Hell, no. You take, you go wherever you want and do whatever you want, but you consider this a lease. Rent-to-own." Spike's eyebrows raised under his bushy mop of hair. "You gotta pay for the remaining repairs, but they're minor, so you can fly her right away. But on top of that…" Spike held his breath. "You gotta come back and let me fly 'er once a year, just for old time's sake. And if you need an overhaul or more repairs, don't expect those to be free, either."

Spike supposed that was meant to sound harsh, like fine print or something, but he couldn't help but let out a barking laugh. Was Doohan really going to let him walk away with the ship that private investors had offered him millions for? The one he'd nearly gotten killed while trying to steal in the first place? "This is unreal."

"It's real, Spike," Doohan reiterated, forcefully closing Spike's hand around the key. "You'd better take it, before I change my mind." Spike's face split into a grin and Doohan let out a good-natured chuckle. "Just swear you'll have fun with it, and treat 'er nice."

"You know I'm good for my word, old man," Spike nodded. "I will."

That night, as Spike sat under the lights gleaming off the _Swordfish_'s hull, he said a silent prayer of thanks and appreciation. Words Doohan would never hear coming from the teen's lips. But it was okay. Doohan knew.

**A/N:** Woah. I intended this to be a short, transitional chapter, but I guess I got carried away. Next chapter, Spike begins his journey anew, and meets a familiar face in the Bebop world for the first time—Vicious. :D


	6. Pot City

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Bebop, it'd be rated X; if I owned Bebop, there'd be much more sex. If I owned Bebop, life would be a blast, but I don't own it, so don't sue my ass!

EXTRA WARNING FOR DRUG USE.

Spike watched with an appreciative eye as the blue of the atmosphere dissolved into the glittering dark of space. He slipped the bonds of gravity and entered Earth orbit, gasping when the crescent of the line of day appeared on the horizon, followed by the sun. He set the _Swordfish_ to autopilot and contented himself to just watch the scene.

Spike hadn't said goodbye. Instead, he had worked with Doohan one last day after being given the key to the _Swordfish_. He thought of it as a final favor to the man, whose single act of generosity was greater than Spike had ever experienced in his short life. But when it came time to go, memories of the end of his time on the_ Desperado_ with Kezach Morgan began to pollute his thoughts. Goodbye was just one of Spike's least favorite words. So, just as before, he crept out into the crisp, predawn air, and he left the Earth behind without a word.

Now that he was free to do whatever he wished once more, his future was looking as vague as ever. He had no job lined up, no place to stay. His funds were limited, so he needed to find himself some form of sustenance or another, someplace where the cost of living was affordable. Once again, Tijuana was sounding like a nice escape. After a few hours of pleasant drifting, Spike set a course for the gate that would transport him out to the asteroid belt.

Fifty klicks away, his radio communicator buzzed to life. "Unidentified ship, this is gate operator number five-zero-niner. Please state your name and relay registration information via monocomputer to channel fifteen, repeat, channel one-five."

Spike felt a pang of nervousness, even though it was normal procedure. He'd been flight certified since his sixteenth birthday, but he had no idea whether his last run-in with the law would show up on his license. But, always better to be honest with the Transportation Commission.

"Spike Spiegel," he murmured under his breath. He was anxious as he punched in the code on the monocomputer, as he was every time he had to use the damn thing. As exhilarating as it had been, he didn't want a repeat of his first flight in the ship. It hadn't gone out again yet, but he had his fingers crossed just in case.

There was a moment's silence as the gate operator received the information. Then, "_Swordfish_? You mean THE_ Swordfish_?"

Spike laughed a bit in relief. So he wasn't in trouble. "Yeah. That's her alright."

The gate operator let out a low whistle of admiration. "Damn. These specs are amazing. So the ship is registered in your name, now?"

"Sure, I guess so." He listened to the operator's enthused chatter the whole time he was passing through the gates, more than a little relieved to escape into hyperspace.

The jump was entrancing. The _Desperado_ was a sub-hyperspace transport, so he had never before seen the phenomenon with his own eyes. The golden glitter of the walls rushing past him had him mesmerized, so much that he nearly forgot to look out for other traffic. It seemed the asteroid belt was a popular destination this time of year.

Several hours later his fuel warning light blinked on, and Spike let out a string of expletives. Luckily, the Tijuana gate was fast approaching. He wasn't sure if he had enough cash to pay the toll _and_ buy fuel anyway.

"Welcome to your destination, Mr. Spiegel," an automated voice droned. "Please proceed to the toll gate, where the fee will be automatically deducted from your credit account. The Transportation Commission appreciates your patronage. Please enjoy your stay on Tijuana."

"Yes indeed!" Spike grinned as he slowed the _Swordfish _to a crawl through the toll gate. The monocomputer flashed the charge. "Fifteen hundred woolongs?!" he grimaced. "Harsh…" _Definitely_ not enough for fuel left over. He'd have to find a job, and fast.

Spike followed the rings extending from the gate on the optimal vector to Tijuana. He didn't know what to expect, so when the asteroid rose up, rolling in a slow tumble across the horizon, he had to look twice.

Tijuana was larger than he had expected. The asteroid itself was good sized, but the sprawling city took up almost every inch of the side he could see, visible under its huge synthetic polymer dome. The place was bigger than any city still remaining on Earth, or any of the cities nestled into the Martian craters. And the whole place had a reputation abroad for being a wretched hive of scum and villainy, a drug lord's haven and a hooker's paradise. Oh, he was gonna have him some fun here.

He entered the dome's giant airlock, at the highest point above the city. Making out the districts from the air was easy enough, so he skimmed low over the tourist sector until he found himself a nice, reputable-looking parking garage for the _Swordfish_. As much as he hated to fork over the cash for the insurance fee, it was a necessity for parking such a valuable ship.

Then, he stepped out into the fresh, Tijuana air for the first time. "Raugh! Urgh!" Spike hastily fumbled for his cigarettes, under the logic that maybe, just maybe, the atmosphere might taste better through the filter of a cigarette. "What's that smell?" he asked, pulling aside a passing vagrant-type.

The ratty-looking man chuckled. "That, my friend, is the smell of shit in the morning. Welcome to Teejay, ese." He tore himself from Spike's grip and walked off again, cackling loudly to himself the whole time.

"Huh," Spike murmured with a quirk of his brow. "Okay then."

He walked along Avenida Revolución, the main road, hands in his jeans pockets and trying his hardest not to look like a tourist. He spied several eateries along the way, but didn't stop until he found a tiny hole-in-the-wall place, with only a few rickety tables outside. Bingo. If he wanted to speak to somebody who actually knew the city, this was the place to go.

The bell over the top of the door dinged loudly upon his entry, and several rough-looking men glanced up from over their beers. Spike went straight over to the counter and sat sandwiched between two of the nastiest looking men.

"Hey, chico, we don't serve liquor to you," the scrawny, seedy bartender said, leaning over the counter to pinch Spike's cheek. "You are too young, and the policia check around here often."

Spike resisted the urge to slap his hand away. "That's exactly why I'm here, you see," he said, snuffing his cigarette in the ashtray next to him. "I need you to tell me where I _can_ find all that stuff."

The bartender let out a whining, grating laugh that rankled Spike's nerves. "Then you come to right place, si," he nodded. "Esmart kid. Go down, out this borough to the next. La Zona Norte. You'll find everything you looking for."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Zona Norte, eh? Well, thanks for the tip." He threw down a handful of woolongs and started for the door.

"Wait." A heavy hand landed on Spike's shoulder, and he froze. He turned his head slowly to see the huge, mustachioed man he'd sat next to. "Listen. Zona Norte ain't a pretty place. If you go out there, my advice to you is don't get tangled up in anything big." Spike let out a snort, and the man shook his head seriously. "I mean it, kid. Everybody's got a hand in the business going on up there. Including the Syndicates."

_Now_ Spike was paying attention. Back on Mars, the Syndicates were behind every hushed whisper in the streets, every big business deal, and even most of the local I.S.S.P. officers. This was definitely big shit.

"Just remember that," the man warned him one last time, and then withdrew.

Spike left the bar feeling a bit more subdued, but at the same time an acute excitement was growing within him. Ever since he was little, he'd fancied himself a sort of outlaw. In cowboys-and-Indians he was always the cowboy, and in cops-and-robbers, the robber. The Syndicates had fascinated him from an early age, but back on Mars they always covered their tracks. There was no way a kid like him would even catch a glimpse of their doings. But here…

"Bienvenido a la Zona Norte," a dingy sign over his head proclaimed as he reached the end of the street. Spike stood gazing at it for a while, sucked hard on the last of his cigarette, then stepped over the threshold. It was like walking from Tokyo to Bangladesh. Where the rest of town was generally modern and well kempt, if a little smelly, it seemed as though authority and the landscaping services had just forgotten this whole borough. "Ugh…" Sanitation services, too. Spike held his breath and took a few tentative steps further.

"Bienvenido!" came a manic sounding voice from a pile of trash bags. A dirty-looking young man crawled out of them and made his drunken way over to Spike. "Hablas Español? No? English?" Spike nodded, and the man let out a laugh of delight. A rancid laugh of delight. Spike reached for his cigarettes and blanched in horror when he realized the one he'd smoked earlier had been his last.

"Hey, listen, uh—"

"I help you out, mister, no problemo!"

"Look, I really just—"

"I get you all the best whores, the best drugs—I even know where to find a donkey show!" He went to grab Spike by the shoulders, but suddenly found a gun pressed to his temple. He shut his mouth in a hurry, only a few whimpers escaping his lips.

"Tell me where to find the best bar." Spike gave the man his best shit-eating grin. He was damned tired of being accosted today.

"E-e-e—"

"Yes?" Spike prodded.

"El Rey," he finally blurted, pointing to a little shithouse of a bar across the street.

"El Rey," Spike repeated, lowering the gun and gazing over at the bar thoughtfully. "It'd better be good. 'Cause if it's not…"

"Aiyee!" Smelling his freedom, the ruffian broke for the trash bags once more. "Pinche pendejo!"

Spike ignored the insult and made his way across the street, dodging traffic. Dusk was approaching, and if he couldn't find a place to stay, a good drink was the next best thing. He entered the door under the pink neon sign, unsure of what to expect. Not too bad, really. There was a nice sized bar and plenty of tables, even if it wasn't very well-lit. Really not any worse than the hole in the wall from before.

"Welcome, what can I get for you?" Finally, a pleasant-sounding voice!

"Gimme a scotch." The bartender got to work and Spike took a seat at the bar, one of only six patrons. Most of them were uninteresting, and Spike ignored them, but one of them caught his interest. It was a young man, possibly his own age, slumped over the opposite end of the bar. He was pale, unlike most people around here, and his hair was almost white-blond, forming knotted dreadlocks simply due to a lack of care. The bartender handed him his scotch and he got up, sliding down the bar to sit next to the curious youth.

"Hey," he said, giving the boy a nudge just to make sure he was alive.

The dreadlocked boy looked up, pinning him with a dead stare. "Go away."

Spike motioned the bartender for another scotch, and he slid it down to the other boy to replace his empty glass. "Come on, man, I'm new here. Gimme a break."

"Fuck you," was the only reply. That having been said, the boy laid his head back down on his arms.

"Could you at least tell me what kind of shit there is to do around here? Any jobs?"

The other boy finally sighed and sat up again, resigned to the fact that Spike was not going to leave him alone. "I don't know. You tell me. I've only been here three months."

"Three hours," Spike countered, shaking some water into his glass and taking a sip. He tried not to let the burn show in his face. "I'm Spike Spiegel."

"That's nice." The sullen youth looked away, twirling his glass as though bored. "Listen, I'm out of here. Good luck, or whatever." He tilted his head back and downed the remaining scotch in one go as Spike looked on in incredulity.

"Damn…" Spike watched as the other boy got up, no sign of the alcohol he'd just consumed on his face, and made his way out of the bar. Without paying for anything. "Hey!" Spike yelled at the boy's retreating back, but he didn't turn around.

"Looks like you'll be paying for everything," the bartender grinned, ducking as Spike took a lazy swing at him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Shit!" Spike kicked at a can on the street corner, watching with morbid satisfaction as it skittered across the concrete and bounced off the cardboard box of a sleeping hobo. The other kid's tab plus his own had wiped out the very last of his woolongs. He should never have approached that white-haired little fucker. He sighed and kept to the flickering streetlights, meandering along and looking for someplace to sleep for the night. At least he had experience sleeping on the streets. Still, the place had the creep factor of a morgue, alley after dimly-lit alley providing a view of some of the goings-on of the city. Spike didn't expect it to be a pleasant night.

He'd gone several blocks when his ears picked up a faint shouting in the distance. Cautious, but his interest piqued, he followed the source of the noise for a while until he came upon an alley intersection, blocked off by the backs of several men in black trench coats with insignias on their backs.

"How 'bout now, you little sucker? You gonna pay the toll or what? We told you this is our territory, and if you come back you gonna pay with your life. Well, guess what! Time to take care of the bill!"

"Time indeed," Spike muttered. He approached the group, counting on the dim streetlights and the gun in his pocket to be his protection. "What's going on here?"

A couple of the men whirled around, catching sight of him and relaxing. Not much a scrawny little punk could do to them. "None of your business, kid."

"On the contrary," a third man grinned, stepping apart from the others. They glanced at him questioningly. "It's quite his business. Come over here and see what happens when you cross us, my man."

Spike took one look at the smirking man's face and decided he didn't like him. But for the sake of curiosity, he took a step forward to see just whom they were beating the shit out of.

"Holy fuck, I don't believe it!" It was the white-haired freeloader from El Rey.

"Believe it," the leader said, misunderstanding his surprise. "And it's gonna happen to you too, if you fuck with us like he did."

Spike had absolutely no respect for the man, but he didn't feel like arguing, either. That little shit was just getting what he deserved. Spike just wasn't feeling generous today.

"Take that, you fuckin' Jew bastard! I want my money!" one of the men said as he planted a foot in the youth's gut.

Spike slowly turned to face the boy's attacker, an unreadable expression on his face. "Jew what?"

The ruffian spat, daring Spike to argue with him. "I said, he's a fuckin' Jew bastard. Won't pay the damn toll."

"Excuse me," Spike mumbled, lips sliding into a grin. On second thought, he _had_ been waiting for a good opportunity to practice his Jeet Kune Do. There were only five of these guys.

The leader was a smart man, though, and he read the sudden tenseness of Spike's stance. Before Spike could even begin an attack, he whipped a switchblade out, and it was all Spike could do to duck as it went whistling over his head.

"Fuck!" he cursed, doing a spectacular limbo. There was no way he could regain his position so he simply turned the movement into a flip, taking out one of the men behind him with a well-aimed kick as he did. On the ground, the white-haired youth began to stir.

"Hey, hombre, you done fucked up," the apparent right-hand man warned, moving to stand in front of the leader. There were still four of them, and Spike didn't think he could count on the white-haired kid for any help. He could take them all for sure, but he had to be careful in a cramped space like this.

"Why don't you punish me then?" Spike teased, hoping it would get him to separate from the group. It worked.

"Raagh!" the man yelled, rushing at Spike with a pair of brass knuckles. Spike easily sidestepped him, and his fist landed hard against the brick wall behind him. Spike jabbed his elbow back hard, catching the man in the ribs. He heard a crack, and the man slowly sank to the ground.

Now the gang was quite a bit more wary, maneuvering so as to get him away from the wall and circling him on all sides. Damn. Now he had a blind spot. One of the men winked, and Spike tried to whip around and see what kind of message they were passing back and forth. Bad idea.

WHAM! A fist connected with the side of Spike's head and it sent him reeling, his vision turned white. Or wait—was it his vision?

Like a wraith, the white-haired boy leapt to his feet and his fist snaked out toward Spike's attacker's jugular. It made impact and the man choked, his trachea crushed. He fell twitching on the ground and Spike fell back to recover and stare. What the fuck was this? The white-haired boy had apparently been faking some of his injuries, because now he was fighting like a whirlwind, more desperate than Spike had ever seen anyone fight. He managed to take down the remaining guard, leaving only the leader left.

"Shit, man," the leader cried, backing up slowly against the wall and dropping his knife. "I ain't gonna hurt nobody. You kids were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just go on home and we'll forget this all happened."

"I don't forget," said the white-haired youth, and his fist slammed down on the man's solar plexus. He doubled over in pain, and Spike sauntered over to help, landing a few kicks in his gut.

The men all disposed of and lying still on the ground, the white-haired youth straightened, giving Spike an appraising look. It was more than he'd spared him in the bar. "Thank you."

Spike raised a brow. He wouldn't have expected it coming from the guy that had run off from his tab and left him to pay. "Uh. No problem." He reached a hand out and the other boy took it, giving it a tentative shake. Then the boy winced and his stoic expression faltered. Seemed he had picked up a few injuries after all.

"Come on," Spike said, guiding him to sit on the back stoop of a nearby doorway. The white-haired youth sat down heavily, sliding against the wall. Spike sat cross-legged on the ground opposite him and watched him. The kid looked like he might have a broken rib or two, but he'd be okay. "Spike Spiegel."

"Yeah, I remember. I'm Vicious," the other boy said, watching him with his dead gray eyes.

Spike let out a laugh. "Fuck, man, you're telling me. I saw you."

"No. My name."

"Oh. By bad." Spike blinked, but didn't comment further. Must have been some kind of street name or something.

Vicious winced and reached inside his jacket, to hold his ribs, Spike thought at first, but then he pulled out a small white _something_. "Here." He handed it to Spike, who took it with a wide eye.

"Is this what I think it is? No shit." It was a joint. He flicked out his lighter and lit it up, careful to take small hits so the paper wouldn't run. "Thanks."

"Think of it as an apology for earlier." Spike smirked at that, but Vicious kept a straight face the whole time. Strange kid.

"Ah, whatever," Spike said with a wave of his hand, feeling the skin-numbing euphoria settling on him like a fuzzy blanket. He passed the joint back to Vicious, who took a few long hits.

"Mmm, nice. Hey," he said, looking up at Spike.

"Yeah?"

Vicious paused for a moment, staring at the burning ember at the end of the joint as though thinking his words over carefully. "You got a place to stay?"

"Not yet," Spike answered with a sigh.

"Well, you do now."

**A/N: **My god, I didn't expect this to be this long. Oh, well. It feels really crappy and rushed, so I might go back and edit it later. I just want it to be done with so I can get to more fun stuff for the moment.


	7. Tank! Part 1

**Disclaimer:**I don't own Cowboy Bebop, or its characters. So unfortunate. Sob.

The spider had been crawling down the wall for an hour. Spike's eyes flicked from the tiny arachnid to the hunched form of his roommate, curled up with a book on the moldering couch. He let out a sigh, the nth or so subtle hint to Vicious that he was fucking _bored. _The guy could sit there for hours, just doing nothing, leaving Spike to entertain himself in any way he could. Sometimes he masturbated, sometimes he went out on his own and got into fights, and other times he just watched the slow rot of the apartment around him. Impulsively, he shucked off a shoe and hurled it at the wall. When it fell down to the floor, the spider was just another smear blending into the horrid wallpaper.

The sudden noise startled Vicious from his reading and he raised an eyebrow over the top of the book. "Bored, are we?"

"It's been three days since we've gone out and done anything," Spike groused. "I'm beginning to think you only keep me here for decoration." He glanced over and saw that Vicious was ignoring him now, so he added, "You know, because I'm so hot at all." He crossed his arms over his belly at the hem of his shirt, pantomiming a striptease. "Is this better? You want me to take it off?"

Vicious finally set the book down and turned to level his deadpan gaze at him. "If I wanted a stick sculpture, I'd eat a bunch of popsicles. Twig."

"Touché," Spike conceded. "But you have to admit, if we stay here much longer we're gonna grow roots in the couch. Unless you find some way to entertain me, like with that amazing poetry of yours."

Vicious was leaning forward, pinning Spike with a positively evil glare, but now it was Spike's turn to do the ignoring. "How did that one go? The darkness is consuming my soul, spiraling me down into an abyss of tight black pants and making my mascara run! Woe is me!" All this was said in the most melodramatic fashion possible, with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead.

When Vicious spoke, it was in the frighteningly low voice he reserved for people he was about to seriously injure. "If you go through my shit again, I swear—"

"Yeah, yeah," Spike waved dismissively. He stood and shrugged on his black leather jacket. "Does this mean we can go do something?"

"Fine!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The two of them trudged down the street in synchronization, their hunched shoulders a warning for people to fuck off. For the most part, it worked. Over the year that had passed since Spike moved into Vicious' hellhole of an apartment, they had made somewhat of a name for themselves in the Tijuana underworld. Like yin to yang, the young men had drawn out in each other that which made them strongest—Spike, his exuberance, charisma and confidence, and Vicious his cunning and insatiable ambition. Together, they were unstoppable.

Yet there was one part of Tijuana's dark side that had eluded them. The part that both scared and fascinated them at the same time. The Syndicates. No matter whom they ran into, or who they beat, the duo was never able to penetrate any closer to that all-encompassing secret society. It was frustrating, and to Vicious' determination and Spike's damnable curiosity, an irresistible target. Vicious had no doubt that whatever their shenanigans were tonight, Spike would be steering them toward that very same target.

"Hey," he said, abruptly coming to a stop so that Vicious jarred hard against his back. "See that?"

Vicious growled irritably and looked up in the direction Spike pointed. He stared hard for a minute, pushing a few errant dreadlocks out of his eyes to make sure he'd read the sign right. "You… you're not serious?"

"Oh, come on, do you have to ask?" Spike's grin spread into something frighteningly feral.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I said no, dammit!"

"…Spiraling further and further, down past the dark black depths to which I have descended—"

"ALRIGHT!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

An hour later the two of them were seated shoulder to shoulder on uncomfortable wooden bleachers. Spike's shoes never ceased in their incessant tapping, while Vicious looked as if he might be sick. They had passed the lewdly decorated sign advertising a 'Real Live Donkey Show' countless times before, but never, _ever_ had Vicious actually considered _going_.

"It's a favorite Syndicate hangout," Spike had argued, quoting the spurious insistence of their drug dealer, Sam. Sam was in truth no closer to the Syndicates' private circle than the two of them were, but there was no arguing with Spike once he got one of his boneheaded ideas. So here he was, crammed between his best friend (if he could call him that) and an overweight man in spandex leggings, waiting in dreadful anticipation for the main event to begin.

Suddenly the lights dimmed, obscured by the rolling fog pouring from some unseen smoke machine. A curtain drew back, revealing a stage that Vicious hadn't even noticed was there. The overhead lights blacked out to nothing, replaced instead by a badly aimed spotlight and several colored mood lights.

"Oh God," Vicious moaned, squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as he could. He felt Spike's hand clap down on his shoulder, squeezing in nervous excitement. But he wasn't shrinking back like Vicious was. He was… cheering?

"Yeeeah!" the mop-headed fucktard yelled, sloshing his beer all over Vicious' brand new trenchcoat. God dammit.

And then the music started. Vicious wondered if he could just shut off his brain and pretend this wasn't happening, this wasn't happening, this wasn't—_oh god_ what was that sound?

Vicious wanted to sink down into his bench and disappear, but Spike just wasn't going to let him go easy. No, since Vicious' eyes were closed, Spike instead appealed to his sense of hearing and gave him a running commentary.

"She's... she's coming out!" Spike's enthused voice came from too close to his ear. "Man, oh man, she's wearing a belly chain and pasties! Dude, you gotta see this!"

Vicious let out an exasperated growl, thinking maybe it _would_ be better to watch than have Spike yammering on the whole time. "Just shut up," he said, shoving Spike's face down into his mug. Spike spluttered angrily and made to thwack Vicious on the back of his head, but suddenly froze, gaze transfixed on the stage. Vicious stared at him curiously, then slowly, slowly turned his eyes to where Spike was looking. Oh God.

"Anunciar, PEDRO!" cried a melodramatic voice from somewhere offstage. Out ambled a bored-looking donkey, to raucous applause.

Oh God. She was approaching the donkey, undulating in a sickening fashion the whole time. She was—wait, were those sparkly tassels on her pasties? Was she really going to—

Oh God.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Vicious was leaned over the bleacher, green to the gills and watching the last of the beer and bile he'd just coughed up dripping to the ground below. "I hate you, Spike Spiegel. I thought I did before, but now I know. Now I _know_ the true meaning of hatred."

"You know you liked it," Spike chuckled, planting a foot a few inches from him and leaning over him.

"You—"

Both of them were interrupted by anxious, hushed voices coming from under the bleachers, several yards away from where they sat.

"Are you sure about this, Clive?" one of them whispered. "It's still in development, and we don't even know if it works. We might not even be able to sell it. And you _know_ what'll happen if we get caught. The Red Dragons will—"

"Shut your goddamn mouth," hissed the other. "You don't know who could be listening."

Mystery man was right. Spike and Vicious were now rigid in their seats, all pretense of blending in forgotten. Slowly Spike turned to Vicious, giving him a significant look. _I told you so_.

Vicious quirked an eyebrow, settling back into his seat in feigned nonchalance just in case the men were watching. _Fine. But what are we gonna do about it?_

Spike jerked his head in a minute movement to where the men were standing. _Follow them._

The corner of Vicious' mouth jerked and the intensity of his gaze rose a few notches. _Are you nuts?_

"Let's go," Spike said, rising without another word. Vicious swallowed his surprise and indignation and disappeared into the shadows behind his partner, moving like a wraith. One thought replayed itself over and over in his mind. They were interfering with the Syndicates. This could only end badly.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

They had tailed the two men for seventeen blocks, and still had no idea where they were headed. Spike didn't think the men were aware of his and Vicious' presence, so it must have been standard protocol to meander when returning to home base, to help throw off potential trackers. A valiant effort, but entirely ineffectual. The two teens had wanted this for far too long to give up now.

"Have you noticed, we've slowly been headed in the general direction of government street?" Spike murmured from behind the collar of his jacket.

"Of course," Vicious smirked. "These guys must be more entrenched in TJ's inner workings than we thought."

Spike rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation and thought about the cold steel packed between his skin and the back of his jeans. He'd become an excellent shot, and whatever he couldn't do with a gun, he could do with his martial arts. Vicious, beside him, was a demon with the huge bowie knife he kept hidden under his trench coat, and he'd taken to martial arts rather well. Spike didn't see how anyone could take the two of them down.

He would have done well to remember what his mother had often shrieked at him so long ago. Pride goeth before destruction.

"Hey," Vicious hissed, grabbing Spike's sleeve and pulling him into a larger crowd of people. They watched as the two men they'd been tailing ducked into a narrow alley, almost invisible from any angle other than head on. The two teens followed the crowd across the crosswalk to the opposite sidewalk, pushing open the door to the first small shop they came upon. An antiques shop. The wide bay window provided the perfect vantage point from which to watch what went on with their mafia friends. Spike pretended to be interested in some old coins on display while Vicious fixed his attention on a large Japanese sword nestled in a pile of old sabers and claymores. Both of them jumped when a cool voice droned from behind them.

"Hello, sirs. May I help you?" The teens whipped around to eye the speaker, a man in his early thirties with curly brown hair. He would have been incredibly attractive were it not for the odd, detached smile that curled his lips.

Spike felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. "We were just, ah, looking around." He felt Vicious elbow him in the side, hard. Why, _why _had he said that?

The man grinned. "Indeed."

_Shit_. This guy was smart, and he was onto them. But who was he with? The guys across the street, or someone else? "You got anything around here I could get for mother's day? Old paintings or something?" he tried.

The shopkeeper's grin turned positively frightening. "I'm sure we do, but I have a feeling you young men are interested in something a little more… rare." Spike's trigger finger twitched subconsciously. "If you would please come with me, to the back."

Spike felt his gut clench, and he tossed a glance over at Vicious. Nonverbal communication would definitely come in handy now. _What do we do_?

Vicious' gaze remained level and calm, focused on the shopkeeper, and he inclined his head slightly. _He's armed. We follow, but be prepared_.

The man turned his back on them, making his way sedately through the aisles and toward a low door partitioned off by a hanging curtain. He ducked under it, prompting the two teens to follow. They did, but kept a fair distance between them. Spike flipped the curtain back, revealing a long, bare hallway that disappeared around the corner into the bowels of the building. The shopkeeper led them along it, bowing as it opened up into a cavernous room, richly furnished and filled with men.

The nearest group, seated at a round card table, stood upon the three's arrival. "Well, Santos, what have you got here?" Both boys stumbled as Santos gave them each a rough shove, in the direction of the group of men, who caught them roughly by the jackets. Vicious bristled at the rough treatment. Spike's heart was pounding, wired with adrenaline and excitement.

"They were tailing Diaz and Vargas all the way from the Establishment," Santos explained, the chilly smile returning to his face. "I got a call from Raquel and I watched 'em come up the street. They came right in the shop. To spy."

Diaz and Vargas themselves stepped out from another group of men, grinning. Spike cursed in his head and wondered how they got here, even as he realized they'd led him and Vicious right into this.

"Fuck you," Vicious tossed in their direction, earning himself a rough shake from the men who had a hold on them.

"Fiesty, feisty," came another voice, and the whole group of men scattered. A man in an expensive suit walked out, with slicked-back hair and sunglasses indoors. Spike stared unabashedly at him—this must be someone important.

"Mr. Garcia, s-sir!" Santos stammered with another quick bow. "We were not aware you would be overseeing this operation, sir."

The man waved him off and flicked open a golden lighter to light the cigar he'd just stuck between his lips. "Christ, kid, call me Carlos. I just wanted to make sure it was all done right, is all. And you," he said, catching Vicious by the jaw. "What exactly is _your_ business with the White Tigers?"

Vicious' eyes widened and Spike's breath caught. The White Tigers were the Red Dragons' rival syndicate, and equally powerful throughout the solar system. And this was their boss.

"If I may, sir," Spike blurted before Vicious could even open his mouth. Carlos stared disdainfully down at him, but nodded for the men to release him. Instead, he heard several safeties being switched off. "My friend and I, here, we mean you no harm. We've heard of the White Tigers, and we're actually great fans."

Carlos let out a chuckle, which quickly escalated into a deep belly laugh. "Isn't that cute," he snorted when it had subsided. "Two kids that think the big bad mafia is cool, and want to get involved."

Vicious sighed and lowered his head, and now even Spike felt anger bubbling up within him. "I'm serious," he insisted. "We can help you guys." He felt like an idiotic child amongst these men. The only thing to do was prove himself. "Just let us show you what we can do."

Carlos grinned. "What you can do, eh?" he glanced over at a gaggle of the larger men. "Tell you what. If you can take all these guys down, I just might have a job for you in tonight's operation."

Vicious jerked his head up, suddenly released from his captors' grip to stumble forward. Spike was already tensed to fight, thrilling with the energy he never seemed to run out of. He took his place at Spike's side and slid the bowie knife out from under his jacket, feeling the same adrenaline beginning to work its course through his own body. This was going to be good.

Four of the men approached them as all the others backed a good distance away. They were all armed, with knives or brass knuckles, leaving Spike the only one without a weapon. He thought briefly about pulling the gun, but decided that not only would that be a bad idea, he just plain didn't need it. He could take these guys.

The men circled them, and Spike and Vicious moved in until they were back to back. Now no one could surprise them. Carlos nodded in approval. All at once, the four men signaled to each other and attacked. Two of them went for a pincer on Spike, knives easily knocked out of their hands by a series of high kicks. He landed a hard punch to the gut on one, then shoved him back into the other. Behind him, Vicious had just as quickly disarmed his opponents, and taken them out with a quick kick to the gonads each. Vicious wasn't above playing dirty.

Carlos began clapping behind them as the four men struggled to their feet. "Perfect. I've got the perfect job for you."

**A/N: **Once again, this chapter really feels sub-par. I'll blame that on school and finals, and the fact that I wrote this in pieces over a weeks-long period. But hey, school's out, so I ought to have a lot more time to devote to writing. Next chapter, the heist! Cheers!

P.S. - Poetry and donkey show idea courtesy Kimi The Great. Woo!


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